


Mother-Freaking Wings

by Mad_Hatter_Usagi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mutant Hate, Mutant Powers, Mutant Rights, bahorel is a secret softie, mutant AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Hatter_Usagi/pseuds/Mad_Hatter_Usagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly is a member of a mutant rights group called Les Amis, but he's unpowered himself. One night he wakes up and grows wings, which changes his life. </p>
<p>I will tag more things as they come up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One Where Feuilly Grows Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Here's everyone's mutations:  
> • Enjolras- Telepathic (reading minds, persuasion, mind communication)  
> • Combeferre- NON-MUTANT  
> • Courfeyrac- Can change physical appearance  
> • Jehan- Cryokinetic (controls ice) but only when water is around (can’t manage vapor)  
> • Grantaire- Telekinetic (controls things using mind)  
> • Bahorel- can communicate with animals, but only dachshunds  
> • Éponine- short-range phasing, it takes a lot of energy  
> • Marius- NON-MUTANT  
> • Cosette- hypnotizing singing voice  
> • Joly- moderate healing powers  
> • Bossuet- energy shields (powerful enough to soften blows, not stop them)  
> • Musichetta- can dance on air with music, mildly entrancing  
> • Feuilly- wings (flight)
> 
> This list will be updated.

Feuilly woke up in a cold sweat, feeling breathless and feverish. His insides felt boiling and in a rage, but his skin was icy and clammy. Sweat had drenched his sheets, so he peeled them away from his skin and squirmed out of bed, landing with a thump on the floor. He could feel the summer heat against his cool skin, only as an irritant in the background. Damn him, he couldn’t pay for an air conditioner.

His back ached like two scorching-hot spikes were being jammed between his shoulder blades. The pain was paired with an itching sensation that made him pull his t-shirt off like it was burning him. As soon as the shirt was gone, the pain and itching were too. Feuilly stood and stumbled the few feet to his full-length mirror, wanting to figure out what was going on. He twisted his pale and freckled body so he could see his back and was shocked at what met him.

Two small, budding wings were nestled between his shoulder blades. They were growing by the moment, seeming to unfurl from themselves. Within minutes he had two fully grown wings. Curiosity got the best of him, and soon he was trying to move them. Feuilly flexed his biceps and back muscles, trying to gain some sort of understanding of how they worked. Neither front garnered any progress. Then he simply began to think of them moving, and suddenly his wings were unfurled and spanning the room; his wingtips touched the walls on either side.

Excitement bubbled in his stomach as he thought of flight. But then came thoughts of persecution and fear. He’d seen what happened to the other mutants, the ones on TV who were rioting for equal rights, for acceptance. He had a few friends in a mutant rights group, some mutants themselves, but he hadn’t given it much thought. He believed in the equal rights for mutants beforehand, but he’d had several jobs to keep up with so he just didn’t have the time. But now, it seemed, he might need it.

He willed one of his wings to wrap around the front of his body so he could brush his fingers against the feathers. They were snowy with silvery-blue tints on the tips of each feather, creating a shimmery look. Usually, mutations revealed themselves at birth or puberty, so he was extremely surprised that he had one at all. He guessed he must have been a late bloomer. When he was being bounced around in the foster system, he’d wished for wings. He could’ve used them to run away from everything.

Feuilly shuffled across the room, trying to find his cell phone. He shot his boss (the one at the music store) a quick text with an apology, explaining how he was terribly sick and couldn’t make it in the next day. He said call her tomorrow and update her on everything. Then he dialed Enjolras, the leader of the mutant rights group, Les Amis.

Enjolras was a blond college student majoring in Political Science. He was perhaps the most beautiful person Feuilly knew, and a certain artist friend of his was crushing hard on him. Enjolras was also a mutant; he had psychic abilities that allowed him to read minds, influence people, and communicate telepathically. He tried his hardest not to eavesdrop on anyone’s thoughts, though, because he felt incredibly guilty when he used his powers on others without their permission.

After a few rings, Enjolras picked up with a drowsy, “Hello?”

“Enjolras, I need a little help.” Feuilly said, pacing his bedroom nervously.

“Feuilly? What’s wrong?” The student revolutionary asked, it sounded like he was sitting up in bed.

“I’ve got wings. Literal wings. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Wings?”

“Yes, wings. I grew wings.” Feuilly said impatiently.

“I think we might want to have a meeting at your apartment then. Help you get accustomed,” Enjolras said. “I’ll contact everyone else, just try to stay calm, we’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks.” Feuilly said, obviously relieved, before hanging up.

Feuilly moved out into his living room, where he tried to tidy up, but he kept accidentally knocking things over as he passed. His wings broke a lamp, knocked over a pile of books, and scattered a pile of papers before he decided he’d better just unlock the door and sit down on his couch to wait.

Forty-five minutes later, someone knocked on his door, and he yelled that they could enter. A steady stream of men in their early twenties entered, with three girls thrown in for good measure. His mind listed them, checking them off of his mental Les Amis roster. Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bahorel, Grantaire, Éponine, Cosette, Marius, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. Combeferre had his laptop case slung across his shoulder and Enjolras was holding a stack of paper. Each one had a reaction to his new addition; some’s eyes bugged out, some’s mouths gaped, some smiled warmly, and some merely blinked. But they were all silent.

“I’m kinda freaking out here, so if someone could help me not do that, I’d appreciate it.”

Bahorel barked a laugh and held up a 6-pack he’d brought. “Will this help?”

“Fuck yes. If I get up, I’ll probably whack someone in the face with a wing, so toss one here.” Feuilly grinned and caught a can deftly. As the heavy atmosphere dissipated, everyone began seating themselves; they spread out on the couch, armchair, a few of the kitchen chairs, and on the floor.

Jehan sat next to Feuilly, beaming and clearly fascinated by the new appendages. The air around them grew cooler as Jehan used his mutation for cryokinesis. They asked politely, “Your wings are beautiful. May I touch them?”

Feuilly shrugged, “Sure, why not?”

Jehan slid their fingers over the delicate feathers, growing more confident with every touch. When their fingers delved a little too deeply, a surprised, strangled noise escaped Feuilly’s lips. Jehan clearly thought that the touch had hurt him and quickly apologized and halted their exploration of the wings. In all honesty, the touch had felt almost erotically good; Feuilly was glad it had stopped, or he probably would have popped a boner.

The red-head turned his attention back to the group. “So, I guess I’m a mutant. I already called in sick for work tomorrow, but I think it’s going to cause some issues in the long-run, considering at least two of my employers are anti-mutant. I won’t be able to afford my apartment as it is. I already can’t pay for A/C. I don’t know what the fuck to do.”

“Les Amis keeps track of job openings that are mutant-friendly, so we have a list of places you can apply to. Uh, when you said you had wings, I took the liberty in grabbing a stack of applications that we had lying around the apartment,” Enjolras said, setting the stack of papers on Feuilly’s coffee table.

“Some mutants find that their landlords have prejudices, so maybe you can take the chance to start looking for a new place to live?” Courfeyrac suggested.

“I can’t afford anywhere but here on my own, and not many people want to room with a mutant, you know that. It’s hard finding mutants to room with, too, considering how little there are of you—us.” Feuilly frowned.

“You can room with me,” Bahorel suggested.

“Don’t you already have a roommate?” Grantaire asked, distractedly trying to levitate Éponine without her noticing.

“Yeah, but this gives me the excuse to kick that asshole out. He’s the most annoying roommate ever,” Bahorel said. “So, how ‘bout it, Feuilly? You okay with living with me?”

“Your apartment’s pretty big, and nice…and you do live closer to where I work than I do… Split everything 50/50?”

“Of course. And I’ll help you move your stuff over.” Bahorel said.

“Great, that’s settled,” Cosette said cheerily. “Now, um, how much do you know about the wings? Next to nothing?”

“I know they have feathers. I don’t know if I can fly with them though.”

“How about we go to the roof and check it out then?” Musichetta said, staring at the wings with interest from where she was sandwiched between her two boyfriends in the armchair. Bossuet and Joly nodded their agreements from where they perched on the arms of the chair.

Feuilly looked nervous, biting his lip in thought. “What if I fall? I can’t afford-“

“If you’re worried about that, then we’ll play some music on my phone and ‘Chetta can dance and help you get off the ground, and I’ll catch you if you fall.” Grantaire offered, abandoning his effort of trying to discretely levitate his friend.

After a moment, Feuilly nodded his ascent, and everyone began piling out of the apartment. Bahorel slung an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders and led him out. Usually, when Bahorel crowded into his space like that Feuilly would grumpily push him off. Now, though, he was afraid and too preoccupied with his future and his next task to be bothered with pushing his friend away.

They all walked up the two flights of stairs to the roof, spilling out over it and finding places to settle. Musichetta kissed Bossuet’s cheek and whispered in his ear. He beamed and put his hands up in front of him and closed his eyes. A blue-ish light surrounded the roof, creating a large dome.

“Woah…what’s that?” Éponine asked, staring bewildered up at the sky.

“My shields can repel light too. I can make us all invisible. As long as nothing hits the shield, no one’ll see us.” Bossuet informed them.

“It’s amazing,” Joly cooed and kissed his cheek.

“Music! ‘Taire, can you play one of your originals? Maybe some violin?” Musichetta said, shaking out her gypsy skirt and shucking her flats off.

Grantaire pulled out his phone and began fiddling with it while Musichetta dragged Feuilly away from Bahorel and toward the center of the roof. The music– a lively violin solo with a jig vibe –began, and Musichetta began moving, her feet lifting a few inches off the ground as she moved, circling Feuilly. A bright, tranquil smile appeared upon her face as she grabbed the red-head’s hand, making him turn with her.

“Okay, now, flap your wings,” Musichetta said soothingly, flapping one of her arms slowly, her feet dancing a little higher.

Feuilly nodded and desired his wings to move. They bounced up and down slowly, gaining speed and confidence. He stared at Musichetta, his eyes never leaving hers. His focus was so great that he didn’t even notice when the wings tugged at his back, and his feet began lifting away from the roof. Everyone watched in mixed amusement and amazement as Feuilly began to take flight. Soon, Musichetta had Feuilly ten feet above the roof, and that’s when she let go of his hand. The song faded out, and she drifted down to the ground, but Feuilly remained in the air, completely bewildered by his new ability.

Everyone began whooping and cheering as Feuilly tried to move in the air. He managed a quick circuit before he dropped back onto the roof, stumbling as he got his feet under him. He laughed, numbly, and sat down, his entire body shaking with nervous excitement. Everyone crowded around, congratulating him with quick brushes of skin and ruffling of his orange curls. Feuilly was rather preoccupied, trying to find a good way to position his wings so he was comfortable while he sat.

“Can you tuck them up against your back? I’ve seen birds do something similar with their wings.” Cosette suggested.

Feuilly willed them to do just so, and they fit perfectly against his back, folding into themselves like they were paper and not a part of his body. He willed them closer and closer until suddenly they’d disappeared. A pained gasp punched itself out of him, and a few of his friends scrambled behind him to figure out what happened. The pain was gone almost as quickly as it had come, replaced by a background sense of discomfort and restriction. He could ignore it, but it was definitely not the most relaxed experience.

Enjolras’s fingers lightly brushed across one of Feuilly’s shoulder blades, up his shoulder, and down his bicep. “You’ve got tattoos now.”

Feuilly turned to look over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of tattooed wings; black-outlined feathers covered his shoulders and down the back of his bicep. He bit his lip, his eyes tracing the newly inked tattoo, eyeing how the freckles dotted inside the feathers.

“How…” Feuilly mumbled, he kind of wished he had his wings back. Just then, the sound of displaced air whipped behind him and Enjolras was knocked back as the wings reappeared. The tension in his back eased, and he wheezed as if he was punched him in the stomach. Enjolras reached out to steady his friend, but yanked his hand away with a yelp. Feuilly’s sweat was steaming off of him and he was gasping from exertion.

“Maybe he shouldn’t be switching back and forth so much,” Bahorel suggested as he passed a beer to Jehan, who chilled it cryokinetically and passed it back. The burly man handed the chilled drink to Feuilly, who cracked it open and took a few long gulps before pressing it to his neck.

“Yeah, maybe just commuting and during work, so they won’t get in the way,” Feuilly mumbled.

“How about we get you inside,” Musichetta said, offering him a hand up. She pulled his to his feet, and they all shuffled back downstairs and into Feuilly’s apartment.

When everyone was settled again, Bahorel elbowed him and said, “Give me a couple days to get my roommate out of the apartment, and then we can move you in.”

Feuilly nodded and rested his head on his friend’s shoulder. Exhaustion was taking over, sleep was taking him. Grantaire took the bottle from Feuilly’s hand and set it on the coffee table. White wings curled around his body like a snowy blanket as he passed out.

 


	2. The One Where Apartments Are Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been in Europe for two weeks, and now that I'm back I have almost no drive to do anything. I wrote 95% of this before I left, because of the wonderful responses I got. Hopefully this is good enough to get some more...

When Feuilly woke up, he found himself curled up in Bahorel’s lap, practically cocooned by his wings and Bahorel’s hold on him. The larger man was holding him to his chest like a teddy bear, his head thrown back over the back of the couch, open-mouthed and snoring. Feuilly’s head was pressed up against Bahorel’s chest, and he could hear the steady beating of his heart and feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing. It was relaxing, being held like that.

Enjolras was sitting on the coffee table, watching the room. He was in lotus position, eyes partially lidded, as he tried to clear his mind. His telepathy was strong, and it made him uncomfortable. He felt like he was invading his friends’ privacy when they were sleeping; the mind was open and fluid when it slept, allowing telepaths to see pretty much anything without trying. Usually, when he slept around other people, Enjolras would find himself privy to their dreams and thoughts without trying; it was a common occurrence—after sleepovers—to see Enjolras meditating to clear his mind. Coincidentally, Enjolras was the best secret-keeper in the group, since he felt it was unfair he could accidentally know everyone’s secrets.

“Hey,” Feuilly whispered. “Enjolras, good morning.”

Enjolras’s head snapped up, a look of distress appearing briefly before he settled into a comfortable neutral expression. “Good morning. Uh…” He glanced around the room to gather his thoughts before saying, “Courf and Ferre had class, Éponine had work, and Marius drove her and took Cosette home. So it’s Jehan, R, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and obviously Bahorel left.”

“Mmkay,” Feuilly mumbled and shifted groggily. One of his wings moved a bit more than he expected and whacked Bahorel in the face, waking him up.

Bahorel’s arms flung up to guard his face, then pushed Feuilly off his lap. “What the hell?”

“Sorry!” Feuilly squawked and flapped his wings to regain balance as he fell on the floor. The stack of papers flew everywhere and the Feuilly’s beer from the previous night knocked off the table, only to be caught by an invisible force in the air.

Grantaire, who’d slept on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, popped up and snatched the beer he’d stopped out of the air and set it back on the table. “What’s all the racket?—Oh my god, why did I just say that? Am I getting old?”

While Grantaire had a brief crisis about his age—at only twenty-three—Feuilly had a realization. “What about shirts? I can’t _always_ keep my wings in while I’m wearing a shirt.”

“Pull them in, and then put on a shirt,” Jehan suggested, appearing from the kitchen with a coffee mug, which they handed to Feuilly. “Then let them out again. Let’s see what happens.”

“Okay, I guess we can try it out with one of my old shirts,” Feuilly said, sipping his coffee. As soon as the cup left his lips, Bahorel snatched the cup away and took a few long gulps, then handed it back. Feuilly scowled at his friend, but resumed drinking. It was too early for an argument about coffee.

When the coffee was finished, Feuilly went back to his room, followed closely by his curious friends—minus Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, who were still asleep in the corner of the living room, because they had proven on multiple occasions that they could sleep through anything when they all slept in a pile. Feuilly thought about pulling his wings tight against his back, and felt the heat of it against his spine as the feathers passed through his skin. When the wings were once again merely tattooed, he pulled on an old t-shirt from when he had worked construction a few years prior. Then he let the wings out.

It was an odd feeling, this one. It was different than the night before, when letting go had felt like a punch to the stomach; this was a lightheaded feeling that you got when you breathed in too much helium out of birthday balloons—a giggly, child-like bliss, instead of the pain of the first time. While Feuilly pondered this, and stared into space, his friends were ogling his back.

“Whoa…” Jehan gasped.

“What?” Feuilly turned and caught himself in the mirror. Even though he was wearing a t-shirt, his wings came through without ripping. In fact, two new holes were perfectly cut around the wings. “Whoa… I wonder how that works…”

“So at least you’ll be okay with shirts, right?” Grantaire laughed and ruffled Feuilly’s hair.

Enjolras’s phone beeped. He growled as he looked at the message. “Can someone give me a ride to school? The university just told ‘Ferre that we couldn’t host the Asexual Awareness Day on campus because we’ll “cause a scene.” I need to go down there and—“

“I’ve got you,” Grantaire interrupted. “I’ve gotta get some studio time in if I’m gonna make my deadline anyway. You’re on my way.

“Thanks, but I need a shower first—Feuilly? Can I?” Enjolras pointed in the general direction of the bathroom.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” Feuilly said absently, still staring at himself in the mirror. He was examining his wings and where they met his back, flapping them slightly, and watching his wings shimmer in the mid-morning sunlight that was filtering through his blinds. He caught a glimpse of Bahorel staring soft-eyed at him, but dismissed it as groggy hopefulness on his part.

* * *

Enjolras had left with Grantaire around ten-thirty. Grantaire had chattered excitedly about his newest project—a hilarious sculpture he was doing for his 3-D class which was comprised of a cast of Joly’s torso and head imposed upon a velociraptor’s body—while Enjolras showered. He was going to begin painting it when he got to the studio, since the plaster should have hardened by then. Feuilly loved it when Grantaire was feeling good because sometimes his power would get away from him and he’d accidentally let the gravity in the room get lighter and lighter; things would start to float away, and your feet wouldn’t always touch the ground when you walked when Grantaire was happy.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had hustled out when they realized they had slept through one of Joly’s classes. That was around eleven. Bossuet had told Feuilly that they could be “bird buddies,” since Gav called Bossuet “Eagle” sometimes—on account of him being bald. Joly had laughed so hard he’d snorted, making Musichetta laugh so hard she snorted. Soon, Joly and Musichetta had dubbed themselves “hog honeys.”

Bahorel stayed until noon so that he could steal some food from Feuilly’s fridge, then dash. He said that noon was around the time his roommate came back to the apartment after his morning classes, so this would be the perfect time to corner him and kick him out. He said he would call when he’d broken then news to the guy.

Jehan was still hanging around. They were splayed across an armchair, their braid nearly falling apart because of a night’s sleep, and scribbling in a little red moleskin notebook that they always seemed to have on them. Feuilly was reading a book that Combeferre had leant him, on international fairy tales. Jehan’s phone vibrated. When they looked at it, the room dropped ten degrees.

“Hey, what’s up?” Feuilly asked, snuggling into the warmth that his wings provided.

Jehan looked up and blushed. “Uh—“

A sly smile creeped onto Feuilly’s face, “Courf?”

“Mmhm. Snapchat,” they said. “It was, um, really—“

“Cute, huh?”

Jehan whined and nodded covering their beet red face with their notebook. “Why does he have to take selfies on the quad? He always looks—ugh!”

Feuilly laughed, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He got up and shuffled to the peephole, which he had to stand on his tip-toes to see through. It was his landlord. Feuilly quickly pulled his wings in, feeling the pressure and heat as they turned into tattoos again. When he was okay, he swung the door open.

“Hello, what can I do for you?” He asked breathlessly. Jehan stiffened in their seat and stared over their notebook.

“You and your friends were stomping up and down the stairs last night.”

“I’m so sorry, we—“

“NO EXCUSES! You and your troublemaking friends are too loud. I want you out by next week!”

“But—“ Feuilly stammered. He was looking to move out, but he wasn’t entirely sure how he could be out by the next week.

“By next week,” the landlord said sternly, before turning on his heels and stalking away.

Feuilly closed the door and let his wings out with a long exhale. Anxiety clear on his face, he sunk into the couch and groaned. Jehan sat next to him and rubbed his back, between the wings in slow circles. “By next week? Who knows if ‘rel’s place will be ready by then?” Feuilly huffed.

“If it’s not, you can live with me and R for a few days. And I’m sure everyone would be okay holding a few boxes of your stuff for you in the meantime.” They reassured in a soothing tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr is notsoshadybisexual

**Author's Note:**

> This has been hiding in my computer for a while. I haven't had the motivation to continue it, so I'm hoping that people will give me some.  
> My tumblr is: notsoshadybisexual.tumblr.com


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